


There's More Than One Kind of Basket

by WaldosAkimbo



Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crack, Pregnancy, beelzebub birthed the antichrist, in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: A very quick blurb as Crowley goes to report to Beelzebub, who is pregnant. It's in my crack collection, it flies.
Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789003
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	There's More Than One Kind of Basket

Crowley has somehow wormed his thumbs into his pockets and is tapping along like he’s under a trance to the eponymous _Abracadabra_ by the Steve Miller Band, crackling over the sound system. Every time the song should have a little _whip-crack_ behind the music, hell’s finest sound-mixer slipped in either an inhuman scream or a strange gurgly grunt. The worst part is that it’s just off-beat enough to be grating and Crowley’s clenching his jaw by the time he gets all the way to the bottom floor. Standard procedure for riding the lift down.

However Crowley ended up under Beelzebub’s ranks is a matter of debate, as he’s not necessarily one to push gluttony like some of his colleagues. He’s more keen on envy and wrath and perhaps a little seduction. These clothes, oh, he wears them so well. Still, that’s who he’s supposed to report to, and he trudges through the halls, side-stepping two lopy looking japes who’ve gone and gotten their cheeks stitched together. Not sure who did that. Best stay off their radar.

“Gentlemen.”   
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“Ow! Careful!”  
  
“Right, sorry, sorry.”  
  
 _“Ow!”_

Crowley just hisses and swipes the invisible brim of an imaginary hat before making his way to the dingy office door. The thing has a frosted glass view cut into the top of it, with peeled paint listing which demon prince decided to take residence inside. You can’t even read the old sigil, but it’s etched into the glass, into the fabric of the door, which might be wood and it might be the frozen screams of the damned. In fashion this turn of the century.

Crowley knocks.

And the door pulls open so fast, his hand still nearly attached to it by way of his knuckles resting there mid-strike and he falls forward, barely catching himself before doing a fine face plant on the floor. Good thing, too. Dingy, awful floor. There’s a bit of bone over there from…someone? And it smells rank. Sweet rot. Putrid. How terribly it would stain his clothes....  
  
“ _Shut. The door_.”

Crowley’s dusting his knees when he looks up and nearly swallows his tongue in shock.

“Uh?”  
  
“Shut the fucking door, Crowley!”

“Right! Yeah, right!”   
  
Look, you don’t argue with pregnant people. You just don’t. Even a demon knows that’s spelling disaster. Dangerous, probably painful, terribly terrible disaster. And you can’t actually ask. What if it’s…fucking…bloat or something? Beelzebub’s s’posed to be in charge of gluttony. It’s not impossible. It’s just…weird?

Right. How… _did_ Beelzebub end up…uh…?

“H-Hey, boss.” Crowley straightens up and screws on a nice tight smile, lips pursed together to keep any unnecessary words or accusations or _questions_ from tumbling out. Simply clears his throat and crosses his hands tight behind his back and…waits.

And stares.  
  
And _waaaaaaits_.

Beelzebub is at their desk, right where they’re expected, with the huge throne all piecemeal bones and horns and what-not framed around them. Generally speaking, that throne is way too big for the corporation they so love to wear, but that’s generally and this, uh, not. Generally. Speaking. No, this is the prince of the flies in a white buttoned shirt, the cuffs undone and and collar unbuttoned, the front open nearly to their navel, with tiny black shorts and their socks almost toed off. Not quite. Suspect one of the lines of their fishnets is snagged on a toenail. They’re fanning themselves with a dirty manila folder, their usually unkempt black hair somehow worse? And their familiar fly demon buzzing irritably on one of the crooked horns of their throne.

Gotta say, though, with their sweating and dishevelment and _weirdly weird undress_ , they’re glowing. Yeah, the flush around their boils? The bright skin of their chest pockmarked with honeycomb scars? Oh, they’re dazzling to look at. Even their eyes seem to cut like sapphires in the dark.

And those same bright eyes are pinned on Crowley’s chest. He swears he starts to feel burns over his pecs. The skin prickles and boils and it's enough to make him yelp, but does his best not to squirm or rub the skin to alleviate the pain for fear that if he were to move suddenly, Beelzebub there might just eat him. It is not outside their wheelhouse.

“Well?”

“Oh, uh….” Crowley loosens one hand so he can scratch at the back of his head. “You. You told me…to come….”

Wrong answer. _Right_ answer, actually, but Beelzebub does not so much like being proven wrong and whatever their condition is now, it does not give them much space to feel forgiveness or restraint. There’s a buzzing, building, nearly deafening in the small office and Crowley gulps twice as he wonders how Tabby in the Discorporation office is doing and just how soon he might have to make an appointment. He has to think of something quick. What the _hell_ was he doing here? Reporting about...right!

“I’ve got 2.2 million souls stained for our pal Lucifer!” Crowley offers over the din, trying his damndest – ha ha – to stay upright. The buzzing quiets and he realizes Beelzebub hasn’t heard him. They’re agitated still, but they're rubbing their stomach, and it gives him a chance to reiterate. “Yeah. Uh, London? London, I’ve got…I’ve got some…paperwork. And I’m going to secure…well, I can’t be 100% sure of the numbers.”

He faffs and shuffles his feet while this little terrifying demon prince shifts themselves, pressing their hands in various spots across that big pregnant belly of theirs.

Parasites! Right, could be parasites! Aw, Beelzebub’s about to throw up a plague, aren’t they? Cute. In a terrifyingly horrible way.

No, don’t get distracted.

“But I’m certain if I pull this off right, whole of downtown is going to be fucked. They’ll make it awful for everyone else, it’s gonna be brilliant. Lots of tasty souls for our, uh, our Dark Lord. You’ll see.”

And Beelzebub groans, waving at Crowley. Is it to go? It looks like it’s a signal to go. He hopes so. He starts towards the door and flinches when Beelzebub barks out his name.

“Uh, yes? M’lord?”

“Don’t fuck this up.”

And they rub their belly again. Almost protectively. Or possessively. A real squirmy plague, then.

Crowley considers how hard it might be getting into the building to tie up every communication tower in London. Honestly, not going to be that hard. He has a pass. And a jacket! He feels pretty good about it and grins.   
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answers smoothly and tries not to grimace when they kick their foot out and groan at the ceiling. Intestinal issues. Nearly time for the Big Show. He makes a mental note to talk to Aziraphale and come up with a game plan to possibly nudge the population of frogs in the area just a _little_ higher to, you know, balance things out. A heads up. Not helping! Just…friendly conversation. While freaking out about big-belly-squirming-Beelzebub. This will require wine. Aaaand suddenly he’s thirsty.

Oh, better yet, he should get a move on. Beelzebub’s writhing a little more and there’s some howls towards the ceiling. Crowley does his best to step silently from the room and nabs the first demon he finds. One of those lower-level legions. Right.

“Hey!” he says excitedly, patting the demon on the back, their little twitchy stalks of hair swaying above their head. They look so pleased to see him and their mouth parts to say something. Praise, probably. Why shouldn't they? He's one of Hell's favourites. He has a demonic medal around his flat somewhere. Either way, the noise from the office is getting worse and Crowley decides he should best be out of Hell before the fireworks go off. “Beelzebub wants to see you in their office. Right away.”  
  
“Right away?”

“I _just_ said.”

He pats them again and angles them towards the door before skipping as fast as he can to the lift. He fixes his scarf when he steps into the carriage, pressing for lobby, and wonders if Aziraphale will be outside on the bench or if he’ll be coming down around the same time. They should get some lunch. Nothing noodle-shaped or anything, since he wants to talk parasites. How weird. But something he’s going to shrug off soon as they’re outside in the sun and tuck away and never, ever, ever consider it’s a baby and not a parasite. One can’t predict the oncoming Antichrist, even when they’re practically kicking you in the chin.


End file.
